


Come Back When You Can

by Immi



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/F, Manga Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 01:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immi/pseuds/Immi
Summary: Ymir’s missing most of the context, but she’s apparently head over heels in love with this girl.





	Come Back When You Can

**Author's Note:**

> This is a purely indulgent piece of romantic schmaltz. Title from a Barcelona song.

Ymir grows up getting that she’s a bit of a freak.

Most toddlers don’t have violent arguments with their parents about renaming themselves after an ancient Eldian goddess. Or if they do, they don’t last several years, and the toddler probably doesn’t come out on top at the end of it all. All of the kids she’d ever been around at that age barely had the attention span to remember to be sad if they scraped their knees. Lengthy conversations full of lisped profanity and stubbornness weren’t part of their lives.

Their loss.

Other kids probably also didn’t wake up in a cold sweat every other night. If they did, they hid it well enough to get out of the inevitable head shrinking sessions Ymir suffered through. She’s lucky she was old enough by then to keep her mouth shut about the occasional voice in her head.

Not that it’s that big a deal, but try telling that to any of the overly concerned morons who sat her down on their couch. Eventually she won her parents over on that one, too. Peace finally showed up when she hit her teen years and realized the idiots really loved her, and they were one of those storybook families where the biggest problem was whose turn it was to mow the lawn.

Like that was a problem. If her parents weren’t stuck with her, she’d have to wonder if they sold off their souls. Happiness like theirs doesn’t just _happen_. The way life works, you sit around for ages, waiting for a glimmer of something better in a haze of misery, and then when you finally find it, you do something to screw it all up and spend a whole night crying on top of a fucking wall in the middle of nowhere.

Only she’s never known a life like that, so saying things like that out loud got a lot of weird looks and therapy. Once they started happening at the same time, her parents made the wonderfully enlightened step of giving up and accepting her. Cue the hugs and tears, and if things like making eye contact with the school janitor and seeing a bunch of corpses still happened, whatever. She deals fine.

She deals in antiques, actually. It feels like the thing to do when you can’t walk down the street without stopping and staring at the blue and white feathers decorating every other window. Lectures on the Survey Legion bore her to tears, but she can remember the taste of freedom, and the thing to do with that is to start something where she can surround herself with it.

This is where the voice she hears kicks in and tells her she’s being overly sentimental. She doesn’t disagree with it, but she also doesn’t hear an objection, so what the hell. It works for her.

That’s what it always comes down to, with the visions of death and teeth and screams. Most of the people who jumpstart them are all part of the scenery, and she can’t remember a life where this hasn’t been normal. Besides, she’s got strains of Eldian in her on both sides. A little freakishness shouldn’t shock anyone.

It’s not like any of it matters.

Then the girl shows up.

Ymir doesn’t expect to meet anyone normal when she opens up an antique shop. She has pretty low expectations for the whole street, really. Someone threw a stuffed green unicorn on top of the street sign the week she moved in, and in the years since, the only attention it’s gotten is someone starting a blog recording which shade of green the sun is paling it down to.

(Oh, and a poll on when funds should be raised for a new one to take its place.

Ymir got temporarily banned for suggesting they make the new unicorn blue.)

It’s a weird place full of weird people. Only one or two make her think of dead bodies, but that’s not much of a standard. She lounges against her register and stares out the window at all the crazies she wants money from. As a way to pass the time, she can’t say it’s boring. She’s always found something comforting about seeing flocks of people walking around, breathing.

Something went right underneath all the wrong. She could stay here forever and be okay with it.

That doesn’t make the voice act up, but a tired, longing _ache_ comes from the same place whenever she realizes how peaceful this world is. Everyone’s insides stay on the inside, and sometimes the relief of it all makes her breath catch.

But that’s how she ends up noticing the girl.

(Sure, because something had to cause noticing her.)

She’s staring out the window, watching the all the living people with their happy little lives, when a flash of blonde catches the sun and this perfect, blissful world shrinks down to a single person.

Ymir doesn’t see corpses, or hear screams. She can’t hear anything past her own heartbeat, anyway, and if she never sees anyone except this girl, that will have to be okay, because she’s never looking away again. Her chest feels like a titan’s landed on it, and she knows it isn’t the lack of blinking making her eyes burn like a fucking wildfire, and she’s _right there_ and Ymir needs her legs to remember how to work so she can run outside and tell her—

Then the girl keeps walking right past the window, and Ymir is left swearing up a storm when all of the old feelings swoop right back out of her without the memory to hold them and her knee slams against the—expensive—wood.

So. Yeah. That’s how it starts.

 

* * *

 

How it continues isn’t any less mortifying, really.

Ymir digs antiquing, but she has other passions, and she owns the store, so if she wants to fill it with vintage records and CDs that no one owns players for anymore, no one’s around to tell her she can’t. There’s a full section dedicated to showing it all off. Some studios are still into collector perks that aren’t all digital swag, so every once in a while she ends up with multiple people hanging around her store on release days. It’s probably the only normal part of her life.

So that’s when the girl walks into the store. Ymir’s handing some kid a disc the size of his head, and some friend of his is right behind him in line, but who cares about that, there’s a pretty girl in the vicinity who’s putting her heart through paces that would shock rabbits. It’s not as bad as the first time, but something inside of her feels like it’s breaking every second she tries to focus on taking her customers’ money instead of turning her head around and meeting the girl’s eyes.

It almost makes her miss the corpses, because she’s missing enough context to think that this has got to be the stupidest thing that’s ever happened to her. No one should be this distracting just by existing.

(What she really misses, explaining to the kid that yes, he does need some kind of CD-compatible device if he wants his collectible to be functional, is the stumble in the girl’s step when she glances at the register.)

When the kids are gone, she’s left with her first look at the girl that isn’t through a window.

What she sees is a disconcertingly pretty girl. Woman. She’s missing a head or two of height on Ymir, but her eyes are a sharp, incandescent blue, and she’s covered from head to toe in the dusty old public servant red. She even has the town rose emblem patched over her heart. Maybe if she’d joined the Garrison to begin with, they wouldn’t have all died.

Ymir has no clue what that has to do with anything, but it’s what she’s left with after she collects herself enough to remember how to think.

The store has its own lighting, but the sun still sometimes finds the girl’s ridiculously blonde hair, and Ymir swears it comes close to glittering. So all right, maybe she does come by some of the distraction honestly. Ymir swallows roughly, not able to look away, but really wanting to because this is so _stupid_ , and to hell with it, she does miss the fucking corpses.

No, she doesn’t.

Fuck.

Like an idiot, she watches the girl right up until she’s grabbed her intended purchase of the day and turning around. The threat of having those eyes on hers is enough to get her back on some kind of professional track, and she makes a good show of pretending to look out the window.

The voice in her head growls in frustration. Good thing it’s not real enough to hit her, because she can feel the urge rising every moment she’s acting like she doesn’t know exactly how close she is to hearing Historia’s voice again.

How close she _should_ be.

The CD clacks down on her desk without a word.

For an instant, Ymir can look at the girl without emotional sop making her nuts. Instead of the pretty face and fragile eyes, she finds the perfect reflection of confusion and mild panic, and a jaw locked so tightly that Ymir’s surprised she can’t hear the teeth grinding.

Like a good, responsible owner, Ymir returns the favor and beeps it through, taking the cash and doling out change in perfect silence, making damn sure that the unimpressed slant of her eyebrow doesn’t change for the entire transaction.

(When their fingers almost touch, they both jump. By mutual agreement, they didn’t notice and it never happened.)

By the time the girl walks out, spine stiff and her own look of annoyance only growing, Ymir feels enough like herself to stay smirking when Historia can’t help looking over her shoulder to glare back in unconsummated irritation. Like she isn’t the one who started it.

Ymir still has to concentrate to keep from rushing outside and begging the damn girl to marry her.

 

* * *

 

There’s something vaguely stalkery about memorizing Historia’s schedule by how often she walks past Ymir’s door. Probably along the same lines as naming a complete stranger based on what a voice in your head insists on calling her.

Knowing what she does for a living is fair game, though. Anyone with eyes can see her walking into the fire station regularly. Half the shirts Ymir catches her wearing have the station number stamped somewhere on them. Not that she cares about what the girl wears. Or how often she jumps into burning buildings to save someone’s life.

Yeah, sure.

Ymir lasts about a day before she sets up an alert system on her mobile to let her know about any fires in the area. It’s more than anyone needs with how close the station is and how loud the sirens are, but the thought of Historia being in danger brings on fear like a vice around her heart. Most of her Historia feelings do that.

She’s pretty sure she’s in love with someone she’s never spoken to.

That’s not creepy at all.

It’s also hard to fix. Historia walks by her shop way more often than she has any need to, and has more of an old music thing than Ymir does. She’s officially Ymir’s only regular, and the most determinedly frustrating individual she has ever met. She wants to talk to Ymir. It’s obvious. Ymir wants to hear her. That should be obvious.

So what does she do? Keep her mouth shut and wait for Ymir to break the silence.

It isn’t happening.

Until it happens, because Historia’s gone and made herself a modern day superhero, and one day she waltzes into the shop with an arm swathed in bandages.

Before common sense has a chance to argue, Ymir’s vaulted over her desk and stepped too far into Historia’s personal bubble, stopping just short of grabbing the injury and demanding an explanation from it.

“What the hell happened?”

There’s a lot to regret in the instant right after the words leave her mouth. First off, the girl is a firefighter with little regard for her personal safety, gee, what could have possibly gone down to leave her with an injury. Secondly, that’s absolutely the proper reaction to someone seeing a casual customer of theirs hurt. Third—third, there’s—

There’s that _look_ on her face, and Ymir still doesn’t know how to do this.

Historia stays very, very still. She looks up at Ymir with her big blue eyes shining, all of the unspeakable emotions between them on full display. Ymir doesn’t bother with names. She knows, on some level, what will happen to her if she does, and she can’t.

“I—” Historia licks her lips, and so great, there’s also that to stare way too long at— “Someone needed help,” she says softly, speaking to her for the very first time.

It’s not, though. _Hell_ , it’s not. Ymir can remember a burning, fearless smile, brimming with confidence. A promise that she never kept, but Historia somehow managed to long after Ymir broke her. She knows this voice better than she knows her own name, and it’s left echoes all across her soul.

“So you just ran in and helped them, huh?”

Historia’s expression backs off on some of the overly fraught emotions. Instead of melting Ymir into a puddle, she steps straight into pinning her to a wall. “That’s my mission, isn’t it?”

“Only if you want it to be,” Ymir says. It’s a stupidly loaded statement, full of all the intimacy she’s supposed to be running away from. Because that’s worked out so well in the past.

“I do.”

She doesn’t smile when she says it. Come to think of it, Ymir isn’t sure this girl even knows how to smile. Just as well. She can barely handle being glared at without making something of it. If she ever gets this girl to smile at her, she’s gone. A lot of her already is, but that’s all wrapped up in pretty girls she doesn’t always remember whispering names into her ear in the middle of the night.

All part of the scenery.

Ymir clears her throat. “Great. So are you going to buy anything, or…?”

(She should probably notice the flash of panic before Historia immediately points at the nearest display case and asks, haltingly, about the notebook up top. She should definitely notice the brush of red dusting her cheeks.)

Neither one’s really surprised when Historia leaves without buying anything.

 

* * *

 

The girl bagging her produce is named Sasha.

That isn’t what her nametag says, but the second Ymir spots her, there’s no mistaking it. She’s missing a bow and the scaredy cat eyes, but her cashier’s name is Sasha, and Ymir can safely swear that she’s never seen her before in her life.

Normally, she wouldn’t care.

Normal isn’t how things work anymore, and she’s standing at the perfect vantage point to watch Historia walk into the grocery store, flit her eyes over to Sasha, and mouth two syllables before studiously looking away.

‘Away’ happens to be in Ymir’s general direction today, and it’s a battle to stay slouched over her cart instead of standing at full attention and offering up her heart. She blames it on the wristband Historia’s wearing today. The old Paradis royal coat of arms is sewn into it.

Why that should matter isn’t something she cares too much about. Who even wears something like that these days?

On a whim, when she strolls over to Historia to make conversation, she asks the question saner people probably would have opened with.

“You got a name?”

It’s only after she says it that the voice in her head suggests that she should throw the girl down the aisle if she says anything other than ‘Historia’, and the level of force behind the thought should disturb her, but she thinks she agrees with it. She’s probably going to hell.

The girl whose name she really hopes she already knows hesitates. “Yes.”

“Huh,” Ymir says, playing with the hover settings on her cart. “I like it. Short and easy to spell.”

And _fuck_ she almost smiles.

She doesn’t; she steps on Ymir’s shoe and walks down the aisle with her basket. That gleam in her eye is still familiar enough to send a happy drumbeat through Ymir’s chest. So is how relaxed Historia is with being followed around by some strange antique dealer while she does her shopping. She’s assuming that it makes a difference that she’s the strange antique dealer. Otherwise it’s a crap practice that she should talk the girl out of.

“What’s yours?”

Historia’s hovering over the potato selection when she asks. She can’t keep her eyes from darting over to Ymir, but enough effort is involved to make her feel special. Even if asking a direct question goes against the spirit of what they have going here.

“Ymir,” Ymir answers easily, counting dots on the ceiling.

“…You’re named after an ancient Eldian goddess?”

“What?” Ymir grins down at the spotlight of skepticism aimed her way. “You don’t think I fit the part?”

Historia really does focus on the food this time. She flutters through several blinks. “You,” she says throatily, “would make a terrible goddess. You’re always the one making sacrifices.”

Ymir’s grin slides off her face.

Historia picks up a single potato and plops it in her basket, veering towards checkout. Ymir follows at a distance; Sasha won’t have the grounds to call her a weirdo in any lifetime, but she doesn’t want to start an overly polite conversation about how sure she is that she’s already paid. Life’s too short for that.

Not too short to stop and appreciate the look on Sasha’s face when she bags the potato, though.

For a second, Historia turns to catch her eye, and Ymir can feel the glare of a sunset on her face as some jackass bashes her head into her temple for dropping some hard truths no one’s ready for. The straps crisscrossing her legs dig into her skin and how the hell did this girl burrow so far under it in such a short time.

It’s gone in an instant, though, and she’s sitting back under the electric lights, watching Historia walk away. The voice in her head doesn’t shine off on reminding her that she’s done more than enough to deserve being on the receiving end for once.

Ymir tells it to shut up.

 

* * *

 

“Do you want to go camping?”

Ymir could have written sonnets dedicated to all the ways that sentence was unappealing. Yes, she was living it up with a solid roof over her head and indoor plumbing entirely so someone could one day approach her and ask, all civility and curiosity, if she wanted to ditch all of it and run back into the woods where she died.

She could have just said that.

She did not say that.

She stared, impending doom settling in underneath the ever-present _wow_ , at Historia Reiss standing in her doorway. Draped in a uniform that swallowed her tiny frame whole, soot smeared across her face, she’d only looked like such a damn hero once before, and Ymir didn’t have the memory around to replay.

So now she’s tromping around in the woods, spinning around at every snapping twig that doesn’t come from under their feet. The trees aren’t so thick that she can’t see the sky, which helps, but she sees eyes in every knot, and it’s hard to tell herself that she’s imagining the distant rumbles and roars.

Historia twitches the same way, but she keeps marching forward, too caught up in whatever madness brought her out this far to start with. If they had some snow, it could almost count as a reenactment. Minus the deadweight.

When they finally stop, she shaves a little more off the ‘almost.’ High up above an inky black darkness, Historia snapping a fire to life behind her, all Ymir can think of is jumping down into it. She doesn’t, because that would make this the third life she kills herself in, but there’s still a moment, night breeze rinsing her hair, where she can remember the parts of being cursed that didn’t suck.

Historia tosses a sleeping bag at her, and a line about sleeping together almost feels worth it. But her tongue ties itself, and they don’t really know each other at all, and her creep factor already includes seeing this girl in her dreams every single night. Sometimes actual dreams, not whatever other weirdness they’re roped in.

She settles down in the dirt, resenting every answer she can think of for why no one could _pay_ her to trade this moment in for her nice, perfectly downy bed. She rolls her eyes at herself and looks up at the stars before more awkward staring contests can start.

Her heart skips a beat.

She knows this sky.

It’s dull next to the fire, and even this far out, the lights of cities blur the horizon, but the night sky is splayed before her, and all she can see is eternity in the palm of her hand, free air rushing her lungs, and more beauty than any number of lifetimes could put words to.

There’s a soft rustle by her head. She doesn’t jump at this one.

Historia’s soft hair weaves in with hers.

“Freedom,” she says. “Right?”

Ymir finds her hand blindly, and their fingers thread together like they were made for each other. The smoke of their campfire waters her eyes.

“Any regrets?”

She rolls away from the stars and the scratch of a lonely quill on a battered piece of parchment. Blazing blue finds her, and the grip on her hand feels like a lifeline. Ymir should shrug it off, and learn to think of this as just a random moment with some random beautiful girl that she will never, ever stop—

“Still that one,” she says, the voice in her head winning her mouth for the moment.

Historia’s very quiet. It’s hard to mind when she stays so close, temple to temple. The loud crackle of the fire makes up for the embarrassed half of the silence. Ymir goes back to the stars, visions of multicolored wings taunting her.

“Maybe,” Historia says, the slow murmur of sleep setting in, “we should work on fixing that.”

 

* * *

 

Some things never change. They maybe should, especially when Historia’s caught her acts of windowed voyeurism so many times that Ymir is forgetting that besotted staring directed at people whose names you don’t know isn’t a thing anywhere else in the world. When she’s feeling especially greedy, she thinks that Historia would be just as bad if her job kept her stationary.

But however far in decline her social norms are, they’re what have her gaze glued to the outside when Historia’s waving off a colleague to walk over to Ymir’s side of the street. They’re what keep her inquisitive ears open.

“Later, Krista!”

The girl freezes.

She’s in the middle of the damn street, halfway through a step forward, already looking through Ymir’s window, and she freezes so completely that the icy winter taking up residence in Ymir’s head feels like child’s play.

Their eyes are suddenly locked, and memories, memories, _memories_ storm on through with such force that Ymir feels like she needs the monstrous lungs she used to have just to draw a breath. She’s locked back in the snow, and the wall, and the bloody patch of grass and the burning sun, and in every single moment, _this girl_ is what brings her back.

Her name isn’t Krista.

Her faces draws closed with pain and shame, and her foot draws back to the curb, away from Ymir.

Ymir doesn’t bother thinking. It isn’t like she ever can around this girl, whoever the hell they are. She does what she should have done every single time, and bolts out of her store without flipping the ‘Open’ sign, running across the street like an idiot without any reason but an everlasting instinct tearing through her.

“Hey—hey, Historia!”

Her shoes aren’t made for dashing; they’re all glam and not much else, and she skids across the sidewalk in front of the girl whose life she’s stolen several decades off every time they so much as look at each other. Her final halting trip plants her inches away, a slouch bringing them to the same height for once.

“Historia,” Ymir repeats, watching the full-body shudder that hits the girl when she says it. “That’s your name, right?”

She’s close enough to see her throat bob.

She’s close enough to _see_ the light come back to her eyes when she whispers her real name.

They’re lying on top of a ruined castle, with eyes only for each other, bare and vulnerable, and never, in all their lives, so deeply fucking cherished. The word for it can wait, but the feeling was never once in doubt on her end, and if there’s anything in the world she could give this girl, it would be figuring out how to tell her that it wasn’t just a dream that turned into a nightmare, it’s everything good and pure that Ymir’s ever known, and her wish for this life isn’t to live for herself, it’s to live with _her_ —

“Historia Reiss,” Historia says, with only the slightest tremble of her lips.

Ymir can’t say it.

She grins rakishly, and the voice in her head can’t really complain, because she could never say it, either. “And you got on my case for being a goddess, huh princess?”

Historia raises her eyebrows, tilting her head back and casting Ymir an imperious look that she was supposed to have a lifetime with.

“Queen,” she says archly.

 

* * *

 

Ymir doesn’t know how many people notice the sheer number of Survey Legion memorabilia she has strewn about her shop. There’s that sword hanging around in the very back that she should bother a museum about. The notebook that Historia was never going to buy that’s a word-for-word copy of a copy and so on of the first Paradis record of someone talking to a titan. Pins embossed with the original three military sigils of their island. About a dozen different pieces of furniture that aren’t anywhere near as old, but all with winged patterns carved into them.

It was never on purpose. She never knew why the wings and the colors kept calling to her. She even has a few pieces marked with roses and unicorns. She figured that she was a history major at heart, and this was the history she liked, end of story.

Lately, when she wakes up from the dreams with the dead bodies, she remembers the names. She remembers when they were still alive. She remembers the sheer stupidity and bravery they all gave in to for the sake of dreams that never had a chance.

She’s known the old Eldian stories for as long as she can remember. Titans and screams, and a massive web that keeps them all connected, no matter how thin their blood runs.

It’s an intellectual pursuit.

It doesn’t mean anything.

Historia picks up a CD from her store, an agonizingly beautiful hint of a smile hiding in her eyes when she hands it over, tapping the feathers and the name listed on the back. “Eren still knows how to scream,” she tells her.

When she comes back the next day, she doesn’t bother looking around the store. “He does not,” she says, “know how to sing.”

Ymir never had a problem growing up a freak. A few bodies here and there, more than a few nightmares; it was all hers, and there was nothing anywhere that said she had to care that it wasn’t what everyone else went through.

Somewhere in the madness, though, she forgot to look at why it was happening at all. She forgot to find a reason in why blood gurgling out of some bald kid’s mouth had her refusing to fall asleep in her own room for a month. She forgot why her parents always felt like a passing phase until she woke up one day and realized they were people she cared about.

Every second she’s with Historia, she can feel herself remembering.

Truth is starting to come back to both of them, and not just for a few stray instants. It’s in the names of their comrades, and never catching Historia without her royal crest wristband, and both of them getting stupidly emotional when they walk past a mannequin showing off a red scarf.

From what Ymir’s starting to hold on to, she’ll be better off knowing most of it.

From what she knows instinctively and empirically about how she’s handled all of the fluttery forever Historia feelings, she’s an idiot, and remembering all of the happily ever afters that weren’t is going to kill her.

 

* * *

 

There’s something about castles. Walls. Grand attempts at architecture.

Somehow, she’s always tearing them apart, and there’s always enough left for her tomb.

“ _Ymir!_ ”

She pulls herself away from the rubble, too much blood and too few limbs following her onto the grass. An armored shoulder blade wastes into steam nearby, and it’s hard to figure out if she’s burning or freezing. Could be both.

“ _Ymir!_ ”

She rolls over the morning dew, an endless expanse of blue sky spreading out above her. She can’t believe she’s still breathing. She doesn’t think it’s going to last for very long. The sky keeps going dark, and she doesn’t recognize the patterns of stars.

Rocks keep moving in the distance. More titans. Or some other war machines. Everyone keeps getting more creative with death. Someone should have tried that with life.

She should have tried that.

“ ** _Ymir!_** ”

Footsteps pound the dirt by her head, and the stars disappear.

A bright light replaces them, and she hates herself a little for the final jolt of happiness she feels when shaky, soft hands pull her off the ground, because she’s okay now, and a death like this is better than she thought she’d get, but the cost is those burning droplets raining down on her cheeks as she falls into sweet oblivion.

 

* * *

 

Ymir wakes up with a shout that tears her throat.

Her heart thuds in her ears, her breaths come in so fast that she can’t tell if she’s getting any air, and the shock of having both arms and legs sends her whipping out of her bed to crash against the floor.

Rabid terror fills her when the pain hits, and she trips up to her feet and spins around in so many different directions that she can’t see a thing even when her night vision kicks in.

It takes precious, desperate seconds before she realizes that she’s alone.

She’s alone in her room.

Her only injuries are the few bruises she just gave herself.

Her hands shakily run over her arms, trembling so hard when her fingers only find smooth flesh that it’s like another nightmare. By the time she’s gotten them under control, her knees are going weak from existing, and the novel thought that she still has all of her organs has her head spinning.

She’s alive.

She kneads her stomach again, missing muscle tone meaning nothing next to the flesh covering it all.

She’s alive.

She’s whole.

For the first time in over twenty years, Ymir takes in a lungful of air and doesn’t forget who she is. She’s the only voice in her head. She can collapse back on her bed, wiping away the cold sweat, and remember that it was all real, and it’s _over_ , and she’s somehow alive again.

With Historia.

The damp calm of relief evaporates as the last few months come back to join centuries ago.

Ymir’s heart jolts to a lightspeed clip, and without a second thought to her ratty old pajamas or tender feet, she’s out her window and down in the street, running as fast as she can.

 

* * *

 

It’s past midnight, in a world where that matters, and she’s a freak all over again, sending shadows splattering over sidewalks as she races down to the Garrison red fire station and doesn’t think twice about what she’s going to do when she gets there.

She can see Historia again. She’s real, and breathing, and Ymir never had to watch her die, but she missed all of her chances to see her alive, and if she only gets a split second tonight, that’s all she needs to know that this time, _this time_ , it doesn’t have to fall apart.

The streetlights are an annoying pain, and she can’t believe how many years she’s gone without missing the benign glow of the moon, but all that falls to the side because even the watered down idiot she was knew to mark down every path to Historia until she could follow them in her sleep.

No one else is awake to care that she’s not watching where she’s going, and she doesn’t care about what else there is to see, because the only thing that matters—

For the second time this hour, all of the air is blown out of her as she’s slammed against the concrete.

This round hurts a lot more. The chilled sidewalk is nowhere near as forgiving as her carpeted floor, and the anvil pressing against her chest is a complication and irritation she does not need.

Coughing, and resenting the hell out of the familiar stars twinkling in front of her vision, Ymir makes a start at getting up at the same time that the current bane of her existence presses her stupid tiny hands back down against all of Ymir’s very stiff shoulders, and they nearly knock their heads together.

“ _Watch_ it,” Ymir grunts, patience a few hundred years too spent to be putting up with this tonight, of all nights. Blinking back the stars and pain, she readies her steeliest glare at her latest stumbling block, who is getting off of her so slowly that it’s going to be morning by the time she finds—

“Ymir?”

— _Historia_.

Pain disappears.

The obnoxiously bright streetlights don’t hide a thing.

Historia’s crushed on top of Ymir’s chest, dazed confusion and annoyance falling away second by second as they take each other in for the first time in an eternity. The casual restraint of two strangers vanishes, and Ymir can see the girl she is so, so in love with take over, staring at her with none of the disbelief and pain that Ymir wasn’t there for.

All of Ymir’s many, many sins might as well not exist in Historia’s expression. All there is, is a fierce, _yearning_ hope bursting to life before her eyes, and Ymir has never seen anything so purely beautiful in any of her lives. Her hands cup Historia’s cheeks, holding her fast while she takes in every breath of the moment, trembling like a leaf.

In any place, in any life, this is the one person she will always, _always_ know.

Tears burn down her face, and Historia’s hands are there in an instant, wiping them away and etching herself into Ymir’s skin. Shaking all over, she presses their foreheads together, the death grip her teeth have on her lips the only thing holding back the sobs Ymir can already hear.

Ymir opens her mouth, stroking back Historia’s tears. “I… _missed_ you,” she whispers hoarsely.

Historia chokes out a laugh through her crying, somehow holding Ymir even closer than before. Her eyes are brighter than the damn lights, and she _smiles_ at her like Ymir never left. “You—” she cuts herself off, swallowing hard. “You missed me figuring it out.”

Ymir musses Historia’s bangs with another pull of her fingers. “Which part?”

Historia shakes her head against Ymir’s, smile breaking a little. She leans in closer, the heat of their breathing fogging the night air and coating Ymir’s lips. “The part,” she says, “where we’re in love.” Her eyes are liquid blue fire, and she pulls Ymir in for a kiss that melts her down to her very soul, molding their lips together with all the confident uncertainty of things never said out loud.

Ymir has imagined this moment, and some combination of those words, too many times to know what to do. For a single, overpowering instant of surrender, there’s only the gentle pressure of Historia’s touch bringing them back down to the sidewalk, the languid softness contrasting the hard ground and breaking her back to life with every brush of want.

When they fade apart, their breath is all mist, and the cold is welcome beyond belief.

“You,” Ymir clears her throat, “stole my line.”

Historia burrows her head under Ymir’s chin, and Ymir’s arms fall around her so easily that there’s a very real chance she’s never moving again. “I didn’t want to wait any more centuries.”

“I would have said it.”

She can feel Historia’s neck twisting around, and she knows her too well not to guess the look she’s getting from the esteemed, legendary Queen of Paradis.

“You still haven’t.”

“True.”

Historia huffs into Ymir’s chest. She doesn’t move away, though. Ymir holds her snugly, pressing her cheek to Historia’s hair and praying that this first won’t end up being a last. She’s had enough of those, and if she ever has to give this up again, there won’t be enough of her to bring back. Too much of her heart belongs to Historia.

She smiles.

“Historia?”

“Hm?”

“Marry me.”

Historia’s hand finds Ymir’s.

“Always.”


End file.
